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Oct 2011
On Sunday, I open up the house
to let in the June morning
to ease cobwebs from the empty rooms,
to efface dreams
adhering to the surfaces.

The weather—
of late, inimitable oppression—
has broken, and at last
we have a little serenity.

At noon, the hour of baptism,
the bed is stripped of its clothes—like a woman
praying for her old voluptuousness.

I wash the sheets in cold water
laced with lavendar and mint,
hiding thyme in bunches in the mattress
to conceal the taste of sleep
and mad dreaming.

I make a breakfast of mango slipped
from the flesh, orange water, cheese
& bread sprinkled with oils & thyme,
sweet plums. All day,
I do not speak a word.

One afternoon (or many of them),
I spent hours just sun worshipping.
It was easier than dreaming, you
could come away with a cleaner feeling.
The liquid of sunshine in the veins
was clarity.

Every so often, tempted by the suggestion of being born,
I stand naked in sun,
reminding myself of distant pilgrims who
prayed to the air or sang
their parched hymns to some tranquil god.
I search for him in the dazed clover,
my fingers grazing sound,
the tender in the long grass, all summers
distilled and scattered  through these empty rooms.

I am praying, praying.
Peter Taylor McConnell
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